


different breeds

by believe_that_you_can_my_friend



Series: bones of ribbon [1]
Category: Dark (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Consoling, Dark season 3 spoilers, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kisses & cuddles in the established relationship part, Noabeth - Freeform, OTP Feels, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Relationship, Romance, These two are all about soft affectionate touches and you can't convince me otherwise, This features two disturbing dreams but nothing too "Dark", adult Elisabeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believe_that_you_can_my_friend/pseuds/believe_that_you_can_my_friend
Summary: Her dreams begin a month after she moves into the cave.His dreams begin a month after he turns thirty.In both cases, they look nothing like paradise.
Relationships: Elisabeth Doppler/Noah | Hanno Tauber
Series: bones of ribbon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827982
Comments: 19
Kudos: 83





	different breeds

**Author's Note:**

> The last season of Dark left me with a big longing for more Elisabeth & Noah so, here I am, creating a series about them, hoping to bring some light into moments of their life in the post-apocalyptic world. Since disturbing/foreshadowing dreams are a reoccuring theme in the show, I thought I could touch upon this subject in this first part, who's having dreams and when, what for and how these said dreams are received by the one dreaming and the one doing the after-dream consoling part.
> 
> (Basically, I wanted Elisabeth and Noah to bond over their emotional trauma. Yes, I know, such a light theme for a debut one-shot.) 
> 
> Hope you like this! Enjoy!

_There are so many different breeds, yeah_

_I just need to find one that fits_

_I know I don't show it but I'm glad you came, yeah_

_I know I don't show it but I'm glad you came_

_¬different breeds, london grammar_

_i._

Her dreams begin a month after she moves into the cave.

She’s back at the caravan. It’s raining outside, heaps of acid droplets hitting the cheap linoleum like hundreds of nails piercing through metal, under the force of an invisible, ruthless hammer. There’s blood on her face; she feels its hot, zigzag route across her hairline, her cheek, her jaw, until gravity does its wonders and it lands on her feet, feeding the bloody puddle that soaks through her muddy boots. In front of her lays the lifeless body of her father, eyes wide open and lips loose, the deep wound on his neck still gushing maroon liquid. But the knife isn’t lodged in his throat. It’s in her own bloody hands and she uses it to stab him again and again and again, viciously, brutally, the sound of blade through skin mixing with the earthshaking echo of thunders and it’s piercing through her ears, her brain, her chest and it hurts and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t bre—

Elisabeth jolts up from her bedroll with a soundless scream.

The old Star Wars t-shirt she uses as a pajama is soaked, sticking uncomfortably to her skin that feels like burning from adrenaline. Her labored breaths are coming out of her mouth in broken gasps and her chest heaves with exertion, as her wild eyes try to adjust to reality, blinking away the darkness, trying to find something, _anything_ , to anchor her mind back to sanity.

Two steady hands land on her shoulders, slender fingers gripping her trembling figure. The soft yet firm action catches her off guard and she jumps, clutching her knees to her chest and scooting sideways as in reflex, afraid that she’s being threatened again. The unexpected presence triggers another round of heavy breathing and cold-sweat-lashed dread, until, somehow in the midst of her violent breakdown, on the path of silver moondust that sneaks through a narrow opening of the cave, she catches a glimpse of disheveled strands of light blonde hair and two eyes, blue and calming as the ocean, sparkling like a beacon in the dark that surrounds her.

Hanno.

His hands are slightly raised on his sides, palms open towards her, a universal sign of surrender. He means no harm; she knows that without having to rely on words or hand gestures. She thinks that part of her knew it since the first time she saw him. On that bunker, minutes before the apocalypse, the aura of uncertainty turned into something close to hope, the moment he walked in that godawful underground box. Then again, back then, she also had her dad at her side, holding her close, mouthing against her temple that everything was going to be ok. Even though that turned out to be the biggest lie he’d ever told her, Elisabeth firmly believes that these few unsafe moments before the world ended, she felt the safest in her life.

_It’s okay, it’s me_ , he signs slowly, more like mimicking the words than using actual sign language, and with extra caution in his always gentle demeanor, since he doesn’t want to fuel her hyperventilation, if she’s still caught up in whatever brought her to such state.

_It was just a dream_ , he assures her when her shaky hands, trace her face, her cheeks, her forehead in mania, in a fearful search of blood that still stains her skin, only for her bewildered eyes to come across fingers damp in sweat and the ends of her hair soaked in salty water rather than telltale redness.

It takes her some minutes to visibly relax and untangle her frozen limbs, Hanno assisting her in slowing down her breathing, by encouraging her to follow the rise and fall of his chest. When the muscles on her shoulders shred their previous tension and her hands lay motionless on her lap, he brings her some of the clean water they keep in a bucket next to the makeshift sink, in the only cup their dinnerware consists of.

(It’s a Christmas themed one that Hanno had found in one of his many scavenging trips around town, way before the two of them ended up in this unconventional roommate situation. Now, it is Elisabeth’s cup. When she asked him how he was going to drink water and proposed that they should share until they manage to find another one, he insisted that he was perfectly okay with using his lunch bowl for both eating and drinking, if that meant that she got to have a life somehow similar to how she used to know it before.)

He resumes his previous seat on the thin sleeping mat that serves as his bed, but now he’s facing her, cross-legged, with his elbows resting on his knees, studying her with his gentle eyes and patiently waiting for any signal from her part that she needs him to listen or to leave her alone. Whatever she decides, he will be okay with that. She never feels pressured in his presence, suffocated or restricted, and that’s part of why she became so comfortable with him so quickly; she knows that he’s here to protect her at all costs, but, at the same time, she is one hundred percent sure that he would never do anything to cage her.

With a somehow clearer mind now, Elisabeth thinks about her dream. In the before world, her escapes to dreamland were frequent, either in the form of make-belief shenanigans with her classmates and daydreaming when she would spend a lot of time at home all alone or in the form of common dreams during her sleep. But she always had nice dreams, vivid, colourful, filled with voices and music and sounds. She could hear in her dreams; she could hear the laughter of her nine-year-old self running through the woods, orange autumn leaves getting crunched under the weight of her yellow rain boots, she could hear the soothing sound of someone’s voice as an older version of herself would busk under the warm, summer sun, lost in that someone’s embrace. They were good dreams, happy dreams, that always had her waking up in the morning with a smile on her face and a strange longing for the future in her heart.

Since that world ended, all Elisabeth has is nightmares.

Grandpa Helge used to talk a lot about dreams. He called them alternative versions of reality, in which everyone was the same but everything was different. She never understood the meaning behind his words but for some reason she felt at peace with that explanation; after all, the alternate her in the dreams seemed to quite enjoy life. Now, after this dream, after all the other disturbing ones that kept visiting her, turning her sleep into a restless battle with unknown demons, she dreads to believe that the words of her demented grandfather actually held some truth.

_Was it that bad?_ , she can see Hanno trying to get her attention, an attempt to pull her out of the pit of depression she is slowly falling into. He is a pro at reading her moods by now and that comforts and upsets her in equal amounts.

_Did I kill him?_ , Elisabeth signs in agony, the fast movements of her hands curt and aggressive.

Hanno tilts his head to the side; he didn’t understand what she said, the simple motions of his hands admit, as well as the deep crease of confusion that appears between his eyebrows.

(She knows how to read him too.)

He asks her to repeat herself with slower movements. Instead, she snatches her notepad from where it’s abandoned along with her backpack and a pair of dirty socks. She doesn’t have the patience for a lesson right now, she needs answers and she needs them fast, so she clutches the pencil between her fingers and scribbles in a haze.

**My father. Did I kill him?**

A variety of emotions shadow the boyish features of his face all at once, when she passes him the small note: surprise, shock, anger, disappointment, sadness. Then, she can see his chapped lips moving frantically, an endless series of _no, no, no, no_ the spoken mantra that, at the same time, his determined hands translate in her language.

_Don’t say that ever again_ , Hanno signs at her vigorously, his face serious and his mouth still moving, probably saying the words out loud too.

_Why?_ , Elisabeth moves her hands in exasperation. _Maybe it was all my fault_.

Life in the post-apocalyptic world doesn’t leave much time for philosophical thinking or contemplating actions regarding ethics and moral code. Life in the caves, on the other side, moves in peace and quiet and holds a kind of solidarity that almost feels ascetic. When the hours of manual labor in the passage are over and survival has been ensured for yet another day, Elisabeth lays there every night, under the old blankets that Hanno offered her, with eyes wide open and mind racing, going through the possible scenarios and the what-if’s over and over and over again, until her head hurts and the lump in her throat kick starts another round of silent, mourning tears.

What if she hadn’t argued with her father?

What if she hadn’t run away?

What if she had been quicker, bolting out of the caravan, making her escape?

What if she hadn’t even made it into this world at all?

_No!_ , by Hanno’s adamant movements, Elisabeth understands that he would not be happy if she shared with him all these alternatives.

_How can you be so sure?_ , her whole body rebels at his stubbornness and his blind trust in the fact that she can’t be anything but naïve and special. Well, she isn’t. She is just a person. And not a very nice one.

_Because I am._ He insists, stopping for a moment to slide an inch closer to her and capture her eyes with his own. _You are not to blame for your father’s murder, okay? You did nothing wrong, **nothing**_.

For a moment, her guilty conscience gets tricked by the air of confidence he holds, the sincerity that lingers in his gaze when he signs the word ‘nothing’ a second time for emphasis, for extra reassurance. He’s still struggling with sign language, every word of each sentence a task that requires him to take a moment to coordinate his thoughts with his hands and this results in him talking slowly, as if pointing out every word, as if teaching her a valuable life lesson.

_Adam,_ Hanno continues, _he has a plan for all of us. Your father’s purpose was to bring you safely in this world. Now he can rest until you meet again, in paradise_.

There’s this word again; paradise. The first proper word he asked to learn after excelling in forming both their names with his hands. He used it frequently, as a reminder or a goal, but this idyllic Eden wasn’t something Elisabeth has ever been interested in.

_I don’t believe in paradise_ , she tells him nonchalantly.

_Why not?_ He doesn’t judge her or become appalled by her. He genuinely wants to know where her objections lie.

Elisabeth shrugs. Her parents were not really religious; she doesn’t even recall ever being in a church. When Hanno first mentioned paradise, Elisabeth had assumed that it was a remnant of his life in the 1900’s and maybe his upbringing in a highly devout community. When he confided in her all about the passage, Adam, Sic Mundus and every other detail she needed to know regarding the task they had to work on in the cave, she understood that maybe this paradise he so desperately longs to find is something else entirely. 

(Whichever the case, she highly doubts that any version of paradise will open its gates for the person she has become.)

_I don’t think I’ll be welcomed there anyways, not after what I’ve done,_ she simply signs and then lets her hands land on her lap, defeated.

She’s suddenly very focused on her fingers, toying with a tiny hole that’s forming on the material of her sweatpants against her knee. There’s a hint of fear gathered somewhere deep in her chest, fear to look him in the eyes and confirm her speculations that indeed there is no other place for her apart from this gloomy, godforsaken world and that, when – _if_ – the passage opens, he is going to disappear and she is going to be all alone. Forever.

She’s not aware that she’s trembling again (from the cold, from the thought, she doesn’t really know) until Hanno offers her kindly his pine green sweater, bowing his head a little to catch her sullen eyes. She lets him, giving him a shy look under her eyelashes and a tiny ‘thank-you’ smile, as she takes the warm garment from his outstretched arm. The cream sweater she had on the dreadful evening she came to find him is not a piece of clothing she enjoys wearing anymore; it holds a couple of bloods stains and way too many bad memories. This one though, holds a strange essence of heart-warming safety, like coming home and hugging her mom or falling asleep on fresh linen inside her dad’s arms. It’s silly and irrational, she knows that, a piece of threaded wool holding so much power, but she is nine after all. She believes that finding sentimental comfort in inanimate objects is still acceptable.

(She can hear the Elisabeth from the old world, somewhere in the depths of her personality, mocking her and calling her “ _such a baby_ ”.)

Dejected, she pulls the sweater over her head and her t-shirt and then, one by one, her arms through the sleeves. Her long hair stay trapped under the collar and static makes the flyaways go crazy, her hands get buried inside the long sleeves. She feels Hanno examine her sluggish posture for a moment before he moves to sit next to her, smoothly and with a good two inches separating them. Since she had explained what happened in the campervan, he’s been very mindful of her and her personal space, avoiding sharp, uncalled for movements and keeping a respectful distance.

_I know how it feels,_ he signs, giving her a sideways sympathetic smile. _I felt the same way._ He hopes that the words with which his older self tried to console him back in the church he had found shelter after killing his father and therefor proving his faith to Adam, will give her some peace of mind.

Elisabeth is shocked, her eyes wide open on his profile. _Have you…?_ Her hands move in surprise, not daring to sign the last part of the question. Although he is not facing her, she can see him mirror the look of uncertainty and worry she was sporting before, the fear of being judged, the fear of not being good enough.

_Yes_ , Hanno admits. _Someone I loved._

His shoulders slug forward and it’s his turn to bring his knees against his chest, his fingers closing in white-knuckled fists around his ankles. He looks devastated, an empty shell, and for the first time in the month they have spent together Elisabeth understands that this notion of paradise is probably the glue that keeps the pieces of his shattered spirit together.

_Are you okay?_ Her hands ask, as if she doesn’t already know the answer. It’s right there in front of her, in the tremor that runs down his spine and shakes him whole.

He shakes his head no, a curt movement not to disturb the skeletons he had to bury deep in his closet. The moonlight reveals that there’s glossy sheen in his eyes. She doesn’t know if he needs comfort or for her to pretend that she didn’t notice the lone salty line shimmering on his cheek, a stubborn tear escaping the iron hold of his pride.

_It had to be done. For the shake of us all_ , he doesn’t give her a chance to act on either possibility. He brushes a palm over his face, sobers up, and just like that any sign of telltale weakness is gone.

He takes a deep breath and turns to her, the ends of his blonde hair playing peekaboo with his sorrowful eyes. 

_After it,_ he confides in her with extra effort on his gestures, _I kept wandering, how can we possibly know what’s right and what’s wrong, what makes someone good and what makes them evil?_

Elisabeth nods, hanging by his lips, hoping that he can provide answers to all those questions she can’t even fathom.

_But our true nature doesn’t reveal itself only in our actions but also in their purpose._ He simply states, shoulders raising and falling ever so slightly.

_We have a little voice inside us that guides us through our journey._ His gaze drops to the golden pocket watch by her pillow. _Listen to it. That’s the only compass you’ll ever need._

Elisabeth weights his words in her mind. She likes this approach of believing and relying to one’s self. She always used to be so headstrong and self-assured; she needs to find a way to prevent this world full of shadows from shadowing her own spirit. Maybe the answer is this unknown paradise.

_So, this paradise of yours… How does that work?_ This time she genuinely wants to know.

Hanno offers her a tiny smile, so boyish and full of youth, that reminds her that despite his constant role of being a protector and a guardian, he is also a kid, a seventeen-year-old teenager caught up in this crazy mess just like her, or Jonas, or her sister, if she’s still out there, somewhere in this or any other world. 

(She hopes that she has Magnus at her side; just like she has Hanno.)

_Paradise is free of pain and suffering_ , she watches Hanno sign, flickers of moondust and the white light of their torch wrapping an aura of mystic around his narration. _Everything we’ve ever done is forgotten there. Any pain we ever felt is erased. And all the dead, live._

_Adam will keep his promise. The passage will open_. _And we’ll get there. You, me, your father and all the people you love._

Hanno’s smile grows bigger and something ignites in the blue undertones of his eyes. It’s hope.

Later, when Elisabeth finds herself back in her bed, with eyes closed and the boogeyman of her dreams lurking in the shadows for yet another round of tormenting her mind, she buries her face in the collar of the pine green sweater she still has on and recites like a mantra in her head Hanno’s words about paradise.

She sleeps soundly until the crack of dawn.

_ii._

His dreams begin a month after he turns thirty.

He’s in this weird limbo between consciousness and numbing nirvana. One minute he’s in their hut, laying on the tiny mattress he and Elisabeth share, her warm, even breaths against the slope of his neck and their limbs tangled in such a way that’s impossible to tell where he ends and where she begins, and the next he’s out there, in the woods, standing in front of her, ash grey fog surrounding their silhouettes.

She looks impossibly otherworldly, like a fairy or an angel, showered in white morning light that gives a silver hue to her soft hair and an extra glow to her beautiful face. She’s smiling big, a kind of smile that’s so bright and so wholesome and so loving that the version of himself in the dream, even though he’s just a mere observer, even though he’s not the recipient of that lovely smile, is compelled to mimic her with a crooked, lovesick grin of his own.

When he manages to break free from the spell of her beauty, he follows the direction of her eyes. There’s a bundle of blankets in her arms, a tiny fist peeking through a white knitted one, in a mission to catch the ends of her hair. His heart swells inside his chest at the sound of a baby’s laughter and his face hurts with how wild his dream self is smiling right now, some happy, unshed tears threatening to flood the waterline of his hopeful eyes. He tries to make a step forward, to reach them, but he can’t; something is holding him back, an unexpected force so strong, equal to the love he has for her, equal to his need to rip the world to pieces, if that’s what it takes to be with her.

He looks down, perplexed, making desperate attempts to move. Slowly, a hand appears and grips his shoulder. It’s his father, with the same stoic look in his face and the same pickaxe his younger self used to kill him, still lodged at the base of his neck, his shirt bloody.

“Are you going to betray them too, _Noah_?” An echo of his father’s voice wonders, his tone venomous and hostile around the name of his alter ego.

He’s instantly met with a hard feeling of vertigo, in which his insides turn into thin air and his heart slides to the pit of his stomach. He snaps his head back to look at them, only for his shocked eyes to come across a version of Elisabeth that’s deprived of all the light her brilliant self always possessed. She looks worn out, her face ravaged, her clothes ratty and covered in carbon. Her hair is chopped haphazardly, a bandage is messily placed on her forehead and she’s crying, her once agile eyes now hollow, forlorn, _dead_. The knitted blanket in her hands is empty, a big red stain on its pristine white material created by the blood that gushes from the open wound against her heart.

His movements become ferocious, fighting the hold his father has on him with a mania that makes him cry and scream and plead for him to let him go, to let him help her, save her, be with her, _please_ , _let me be with her, I beg you, please, let me be with her, let me PLEAS_ —

Hanno jolts up from the mattress with a violent gasp.

He’s covered in sweat, the ends of his now short hair damp against his forehead. He heaves wildly, desperately trying to supply his lungs with much needed oxygen, the rise and fall of his chest so rapid that makes his muscles hurt, even more than when he used to work endless hours in the cave. His left hand is still tangled up in Elisabeth’s embrace and he’s not even aware that he’s holding on her hand for dear life, until their joined hands are clutched tightly against his bare chest, over the place where his traumatised heart is beating like crazy.

Elisabeth has already sat up right next to him, her free hand rubbing soothing circles over the ink on his back and her soft lips leaving tender kisses on his shoulder. As he heaves and heaves and heaves, disorientated and lost, he feels her slender fingers caressing his cheek until they reach his jaw, using it to turn his face towards her, to anchor him back to her, to their world. When the turbulent blue of his eyes meet the soothing blue of hers, she uses her hand to gently sign to him.

_It’s okay, I’m here. It was just a dream._

He nods in understanding, his chest deflating with a trembling sigh as his hazy mind starts to clear and he realises that everything was a sick trick of his brain, that she is here with him, in their bed, and they are ok. Elisabeth uses the nape of his neck to bring his face closer to hers, foreheads rubbing together and eyes interlocking, a sign of tender affection and a silent vow that it’s gonna be them against the world forever. This always does it for him, calms and reassures him that whatever happens, whatever they do, they’re still gonna be Hanno and Elisabeth; something so indestructible like fate or the universe.

_Thank you_ , he mouths, inches away from her lips. He receives a soft kiss as an answer, incredibly sweet and longing, that momentarily makes him forget all pain and suffering.

_Want me to bring you some water?_ , Elisabeth signs when they pull back for air, already starting to get up on her feet without waiting for an answer.

She rolls over him to get out of bed and he scoots back to rest against their flimsy pillows, the messy blankets pooled around his abdomen. Exhausted from all the turmoil in his dream and still trying to catch his breath, Hanno watches her move around the confided space of their household. She’s in his old pine green sweater – an article of clothing she is so adamant to get rid of, despite how threadbare or loose it became through the years – her slim legs looking like going for miles, her waist-long hair cascading like silk down her back. At 22 and she’s stunning, the kind of stunning that he firmly believes would turn heads both in hers and his past worlds and every other world that ever existed or will exist. They’ve been together as a couple for three years now and she always laughs and rolls her pretty eyes at him whenever he tells her that he never imagined that such a woman would ever return his affections. Then, she reminds him that she had developed a crush on him – and his broad from all the mining, tattooed shoulders – way before he did and that’s always his queue to chuckle and kiss her clever grin off her lips.

It's been years since he only saw her as a little sister or a good friend. It’s also been years since he first understood that, somewhere along the way, without him knowing, without him noticing, he had fallen in love with her. Hard and unconditionally. And maybe her natural beauty and the delectable female curves she developed once she started to become a young adult were major factors to the change in his perspective, there are a million other reasons, her bright mind, her sharp tongue, her strength, her compassion, her grace, her confident and independent spirit, that will always hold him – his mind, his body, his soul – her devoted captive forever.

A world without Elisabeth, or worse, a world where he causes her even the slightest of harm in any way, shape or form, is a place in which he’d rather be caught dead than ever exist.

She steps over his legs to return to her side of the bed, the more “secure” one by the wall, and kneels next to him over the covers, offering him the cup filled with water, a ‘drink up’ order behind the familiar bossy look in her eyes. He complies while she lights up a candle on top of their handmade bedside table, just to add some light in the pitch black scenery that surrounds them. Then, she sits back on her heels and waits patiently for him, Hanno giving her thigh a small affectionate squeeze as another thank you for the water, for being here, for putting up with him, for everything.

(The cup in his hands is the same Christmas themed one that used to be hers when she first came to live with him all those years ago. Now, it’s not really anyone’s personal cup, just one of the few they obtained through the years, either him finding them or her making them herself from any material she could use. Yet, apart from its sentimental value, it never failed to make them smile with its colorful twinkle lights all over the white – a lot more to the dusty cream shade now, due to the years – porcelain and the two smiley foxes at the center of it, wearing Christmas hats and enjoying their time in the snow, their orange fur prettily decorated with tiny snowflakes.)

_Was it your father again?_ , in his peripheral vision, Elisabeth signs tentatively, concern obvious on her face.

Hanno nods. She doesn’t know every detail of his reoccurring nightmare; not because he wants to keep things from her or lie to her, he never does or wants that, but because some bits and pieces keep changing every time he experiences it. Sometimes there is a baby in her hands, sometimes the baby is in his, sometimes there isn’t a baby at all. Why worry her about something that maybe will turn out to be just a projection of his inner, most wished upon, wish, that of wanting to start a family with her someday, far away from this hellhole.

(The ghastly looking Elisabeth is always there in the dream. But he’s not comfortable thinking about that image, let alone talking about it.) 

He feels the pads of her fingers on his forehead, pressing lightly on the frown lines right between his brows, as if trying to erase them, push them under his skin and make them disappear, along with all the million things that always seem to be running on his restless mind.

_Always so worried_ , she mouths with a pout and any other time he would have laughed because of how adorable she looks, always succeeding in lifting his spirits with funny grimaces and ridiculous imitations of his broody face. Right now, though, he just brings her hand to his mouth and leaves a soft kiss on the inside of her palm, where tiny scars mark her skin, courtesy of all the years she had spent hauling rocks and digging underground pathways that will lead to some promised land of salvation.

_I just feel like, while I’m doing everything in my power to ensure Adam’s plan and make it work, at the end of the day, I achieve nothing._ He tells her with a sigh, before meeting her eyes, an expression of despair shadowing his handsome face.

_We’ve been in this world twelve, thirteen years now, and our progress with the God particle is minimum to none. On top of that, Jonas is stuck in his own head and Claudia comes and goes as she pleases and, to be honest, she doesn’t give me any reason to trust her with anything regardin—_

Elisabeth’s hand lands on his lips again, this time shushing his incessant rumbling. He lets go of the breath he didn’t know he’s been holding, a trembling exhale of oxygen trapped in the prison of her slender fingers, and tries to take a mental step back and rearrange his thoughts. It’s not as easy as it sounds. He always possessed a certain level of confidence that can be considered his best as well as his worst trait. When he sets his mind into something, he dives headfirst, dedicates his whole being to his goal. He’s methodical, practical; he’ll move mountains and go to the ends of the earth to get the job done. Such level of self-assurance and self-reliance, though, doesn’t go hand in hand with the prospect of failure. Especially, if this means that he’s failing someone else, namely the most important person in his life. 

Said person can probably read his thoughts by now – he’s pretty sure that she mastered that skill the very first week of their cohabitation – because she climbs over his lap and crosses her arms behind his neck in a loose embrace, her legs straddling his thighs and his hands finding their place against her hips.

_Really? That’s what you’re afraid of? Not working hard enough?_ The expression on her face tells him that she finds such thought incredulous, since for the past month – or months – he has been spending hours after hours with Jonas, either at the God particle or at the bunker, taking notes, discussing, theorizing, trying to reach the end of this dimensional labyrinth. She even came to the point of asking him if he’s cheating on her with Jonas in which he answered with such a look of puzzled oblivion that literal tears ran down her face because of how hard she was laughing.

(Every minute of headache inflicted by time travelling calculations and Jonas Kahnwald’s insufferable pessimism was worth it when he saw her laughing like that, without a care in the world.)

Hanno reluctantly removes her hands from her body to share his worries. 

_I’m afraid that I_ _’m depriving you of a future._ He watches her frown, as she reads his hands. _You’re 22, Lis. In the normal world, you’d be out there living life, having fun. You’d be graduating college and starting on your first job. You wouldn’t have to deal with radioactive ruins and a couple of time-traveling lunatics and a decrepit house made of wooden blanks and a miserable garden that nothing grows in it, because even the ground you walk on is poisonous._

He runs a palm down his face, frustrated and defeated, and rests his head back against the wooden wall. For a minute or two they don’t talk; she just sits back on his thighs, processing his words, and he examines her, their fingers crossing and uncrossing over his abs.

_Well, yeah, all these things sound nice, but I wouldn’t want to experience them without you._

Elisabeth grabs his hand tight. He gets the message; she doesn’t want to let go, not now, not ever. He doesn’t either. He’ll probably die, if he wakes up tomorrow in a world that’s deprived of her. But if it means that she gets to live happy, safe, normal, then he’ll gladly take death any day.

She knows what he is willing to sacrifice. She doesn’t let him say it out loud.

_Sometimes, I have dreams that I’m in this other, normal world. I have a normal job and I live in a normal house, I go out with normal friends and we have normal dinner. Burgers and fries or pizza._ She makes a sound of delight and licks her lips, her dreamy grin succeeding in making him smile for a nanosecond, before melancholy settles on her blue irises again.

_And when I wake up and I see this grey, dusty sky through the window, I get this insufferable burden right here in my chest…_ her face is a mask of depression and she stops her vivid gestures to take his hand and place it on her chest, his open palm over her heart that still flatters whenever he looks at her.

Her whole face changes again, lights up, almost glows, as a pretty smile spreads on her lips.

_But then I roll over and I see you, sleeping soundly next to me with messy bed hair and lips slightly open,_ Elisabeth caresses back his light blonde hair, Hanno leaning into her touch, _your arm securely curled around my waist and that ugly pressure on my chest vanishes, you make me breathe again. Because that’s what you do, you make it all better, my life, my existence, even myself._

She leaves a peck right in the middle of his chest, on his collarbone, his jawline, his cheekbone, his temple, his forehead. They all translate into _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

_Without you, I’d be suffocated in any world and any timeline, despite how normal it appeared to be_ , she signs slowly, truthfully and so head-over-heels in love with him, when her forehead settles against his forehead and the tip of her nose brushes his in a playful, affectionate move.

In that moment, he feels like he could burst with how much love and adoration he has for this girl, every version of her, every colour, light or dark, of her personality pallet. The girl that kept wearing her blood-stained sweater for almost a year, putting on a brave face, in order not to get him into the trouble of finding her new clothes. The girl that burnt that sweater at fifteen and swore never to feel powerless again. The girl that cried when Hanno and Jonas threw her a graduation party. The girl that held a gun to a madman’s face, efficiently ending the fight he had picked up with both Hanno and Jonas, when he tried to steal their equipment from the power plant. The girl that used to put spiders on his bedroll and laugh for days because of his terrified reactions. The girl that’s vocal about the inhumane conditions they’re forced to live in and always holds her ground against any sergeant that tries to patronize and gaslight her. The girl that still sleeps with her mother’s pocket watch on her bedside. The girl that, right now, dressed in his old sweater, with tangled hair and bags under her sleepy eyes, looks like a gorgeous superhero that saves the day, yet again.

_Back then, I used to hate normal. Now, normal is the only thing that I long to experience with you. We’ll get out of here. Maybe not today or tomorrow or for another thirteen years but we will get out. We’ll figure it out and we will get out._

He hugs her, close to his body, tightly, his arms wrapping around her waist, her thighs embracing his hips. He buries his face in her neck and closes his eyes, takes a minute to get lost in her scent, intoxicating sandalwood and wild berries and rebellious cinnamon, and that’s all it takes for him to regain his spirit, find his inner motive, reconnect with his soul. Because that’s what Elisabeth is; his supply of life, his strength to move forward, his oxygen, his pulse, his heartbeat, his soul.

He has reached a point in his life that he knows how to deal with anything Adam throws his way. And he only cares about her. The first time Adam asked for his assistance and his loyalty, he had picked him. Now, if there’s ever going to be a question between Adam and Elisabeth, he will always choose her. Without thinking, without second guessing. Come what may, he will fight for her and only her, a true believer at her feet, her most devoted soldier.

She pulls back, barely an inch, her palms tender against his cheeks.

With a lovely smile, she signs, _tell me about paradise_.

And he does, over and over and over again, until sleep overtakes him with her golden hair spread all over his shoulder and her eyelids tickling his skin, his arms full with his own personal paradise.

He sleeps soundly until the crack of dawn. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! Leave a comment and tell me what you think! <3 You can also find me on tumblr at [believe-that-you-can-my-friend](https://believe-that-you-can-my-friend.tumblr.com)


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